


It’s Okay

by ohgodmyeyes



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Caregiving, Depression, F/M, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Health Issues, Mental Illness, One Shot, Present Tense, Reader-Insert, Self Harm, Suicidal Ideation, Suicide Attempt, wrist cutting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:34:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27148096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohgodmyeyes/pseuds/ohgodmyeyes
Summary: One day at a bereavement group, you meet a sweet young man named Anakin. It is only after getting attached to him that you find his pain runs a bit deeper than you expected.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	It’s Okay

**Author's Note:**

> I was clearing out my old iPad, and found this sitting on it. It was supposed to be part of a longer story, but I abandoned it & am not likely to continue it. 
> 
> I’m posting it anyway because I’m clearly on a suicidal Anakin kick recently, and I figured someone other than me might like to take care of him like this. Anyway, I think it works just fine by itself. Enjoy, or don’t.

The first time you meet Anakin, you’re attending a bereavement group. You’ve just lost your mother; since he’s young like you, you figure he’s lost one of his own parents, too. His mother is, in fact, dead like yours... but that’s not why he’s here. 

Anakin has just lost his wife.

“She died giving birth,” he says, as he approaches you anxiously after the group’s dispersement. “I have twin babies; a boy and a girl. I’m alone with them now, and I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

He seems lost, and you feel a bit like that, too. “I’m sorry,” you say, because you are. You can’t imagine losing your spouse in your twenties; let alone being faced with the prospect of raising two children by yourself. You talk with him for a while, and then you invite him out for coffee with you that afternoon: He’s been kind, and you want to be kind to him in return. Aside from that, he is undeniably lovely— his broad shoulders, dirty-blonde mop of hair, and sad, earnest smile are all endearing; you certainly wouldn’t mind looking at him from across a table for a while, even if you don’t expect it to lead to much of anything.

...Your coffee date goes well, though; well enough that (at his behest) you elect to see him outside of the group again... and again, and again, even once you’re both finished with the therapeutic gatherings altogether. You meet his children; they’re less than a year old, but they’re as sweet and easy to like as he is. You spend time at his home; sometimes with the twins, and sometimes after they’ve gone to bed, too. You start to stay the night at one another’s houses once in a while, because you love to talk to Anakin. He’s interesting, very smart, and exactly as kind as you had first judged him to be. He’s also still beautiful; however, the more you get to know him, the less that seems to matter to you: You realize you’d want to be near him no matter what he looked like.

You notice fairly early on in your relationship (it is a relationship, isn’t it?) that Anakin has scars, and not just emotional ones. They’re on his legs and on his chest, and on his perfectly-toned stomach, too. You might have wondered about how he acquired them, but you don’t, because they happen to cover his arms as well... and you’ve seen enough of _those_ types of scars before to know that Anakin’s were self-inflicted.

That’s okay, though; you can accept that. From what he tells you, his childhood was not necessarily easy, not to mention the fact that he happens to have had a brief-yet-arduous stint in the military. Between the difficulties he experienced growing up, his time overseas, and the loss of his wife, you suppose it would be strange if he _didn’t_ harbour some visible evidence of all of the trauma he’d suffered. 

Anyway, the scars are old; healed-over: A part of his past. You don’t even address them as you continue to grow closer to one another, because you feel like it isn’t necessary. 

...

“Hello?”

Your phone’s been ringing; it’s the middle of the night. You sit up in bed as you answer it, and on the other end of the line is a nurse. She says that she works in the emergency department at the local hospital, and then asks for you by name. You’re not awake enough yet to feel worried; just confused. You ask her what’s going on.

“Do you know a man named ‘Anakin Skywalker’?” 

Of course you do. 

You tell her so, to which she informs you, “He’s in our emergency room, and his only other contact is busy looking after his children. He’s being admitted, and he needs some personal items brought to him. Can you help?”

That wakes you up immediately. “What’s going on?” you ask, already rising from your bed to begin to dress. “Of course I can help— _is he okay?”_

“He’s stable and conscious. I can’t give you any more details over the phone.”

“I’ll be there in half an hour,” you say, and you start to pack a bag with some of the things Anakin has left at your house over the months. They include his spare toothbrush, a set of clean clothes, shampoo, and a razor. You don’t know yet that he won’t be allowed to have the razor. 

You assume he’s been in a car accident.

...

“Anakin!” you exclaim, as you drop the bag you’ve packed for him at the foot of his hospital bed and immediately run up to greet him. He’s laying down, and he looks groggy— but, he’s awake. “Anakin, what happened?” His arms are wrapped in thick bandages, and he looks as white as a ghost. 

He sighs and looks up at you, and then his eyes fill with tears. “I’m sorry,” he says, and you understand right away.

“It’s okay,” you assure him quietly, stroking his hair. _”It’s okay.”_

You don’t ask him why; you know he’ll tell you when he’s ready. To a large part of you, it doesn’t matter if he’s ever ready, because you’re just relieved that he’s still alive. You sit down; keep on stroking his hair, and he closes his eyes. You watch him tremble as tears fall freely down the sides of his face. You wipe them away with your sleeve as best you can, but they keep on coming through his deep, shuddering breaths until he manages to fall asleep.

While he’s unconscious, you learn from the nurse who called you that his attempt on his own life was anything but superficial: The gashes running along the length of his arms required several stitches; he himself had needed a bag of donated blood to replenish what he’d lost when he had hurt himself. His best friend had found him; however, that friend is now at his home with his children, and can’t be here at the hospital to visit him— or to bring him his things.

“What can I do for him?” you ask, because you have no idea.

“Be here when he wakes up, if you can. We’ll be transferring him to the psychiatric ward within the next few days; he’ll spend two to six weeks there, and then hopefully he’ll be discharged. He’s going to need support when he leaves— does he have anyone in his life besides you and the friend taking care of his children?”

You shake your head. “Not really. His own mother is dead, and so is his children’s.”

The nurse draws her lips into a thin smile. “That’s too often the case in these situations. How close are you to him, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Pretty close,” you say. It certainly feels that way. Then, “Will he be allowed visitors, when he gets transferred to the other ward?”

“During visiting hours, yes. Am I to assume that you’ll be willing to work with him to formulate a plan for when he goes home?”

“Yes,” you nod, not yet taking into consideration what that might actually entail. “Yes, of course. Do you know what—”

She puts her hand up; cuts you off as gently as it seems she can. “Don’t worry about any of that yet. He’s still recovering from his injuries— once he sees the doctors upstairs, they’ll be able to give you a better idea as to what he’ll need. For now, I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you just sat with him.”

“...Alright,” you say, wishing there was more you could do. You return the nurse’s tentative smile, and step back up to the head of Anakin’s bed. You sit down beside him. Once you’re alone in the room with him again, you lean in to kiss him very gently on the head. He shifts in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake up. “It’s okay,” you tell him once more, this time in a whisper.

You need him to believe it’s okay, because you want him to get better.

...

“I hate it here,” says Anakin when you come back to visit him in the psychiatric ward’s common area.

He looks better now: His arms are still bandaged, but the colour is back in his face. He’s alert, and he’s talking to you— if it weren’t for the stark whiteness of the walls and the overpowering scent of disinfectant mixed with brewing coffee, it would feel like any other time you’d ever sat and talked with him. He’s wearing a t-shirt and a set of plaid pyjama pants you’d brought him early-on in his stay. He’s clean-shaven, but resents the fact that the hospital staff supervise him while he’s in possession of his razor.

“It won’t be forever,” you remind him. “Everyone just wants to make sure you’ll be safe when you come home.”

He sighs— it always feels to him as though you’re being condescending when you speak that way, even though you aren’t. “How are Luke and Leia?” he asks, which at least makes you smile. He loves his children; you know he does.

“They’re fine,” you answer, “but I can tell they miss you. Ben says they do, too.” Ben is his best friend; the one taking care of his twins. They served together in the military before Anakin left it, and even though Ben is still enlisted, the two of them are very close. You get along with him too, although you sometimes can’t tell whether he only seems to like you because he’s happy to have someone to keep Anakin company while he’s gone... which, of course, is often.

“They don’t miss me; they’re too little to realize I’m even gone,” he says dismissively, fiddling with the edge of one of the bandages covering his arms. 

“I don’t think they are,” you counter kindly. The twins are a little over a year old by now; you’ve watched their awareness grow over the months, and you’re certain they know their dad isn’t at home with them. “They even ask for you— Luke says ‘dada’ while he looks at the front door, and Ben says it’s next to impossible to get Leia to sleep through the night since you’ve been gone.” Typically, Anakin’s children are both excellent sleepers; you have no doubt that his daughter’s new unwillingness to go to bed is a symptom of her missing him.

“If you say so,” he concedes, and looks around the room uncomfortably. It’s a medium-sized room with tables, a sink, a coffee-maker, a shelf full of old-looking books, and a machine selling water and snacks. There’s a small television mounted near the ceiling in one of the far corners; it’s playing the weather forecast, but it’s muted. The room is empty right now save for the two of you, but since it’s open to all of the people staying in the ward, you know that could change at any moment. “I miss them,” Anakin says, “and I miss you, too.”

You reach across the table and put your hand on top of his. “You don’t have to miss me; I’ll come back here to visit you as often as I can until you get to come home. It won’t be long, even if it feels that way.” 

When Anakin was admitted, he gave the hospital staff written permission to speak to you about both his condition: He’s depressed, they say, but they also tell you that he’s making progress; participating willingly in their program, and accepting the treatment they’re offering. You know he doesn’t like the therapy he has to attend or the medications he has to take; you also know he’s sick of sitting around in his pyjamas doing puzzles... but, you’re proud of him, because wanting to come home means he wants to be alive.

You want him to be alive, too.

...

“Here we are,” you say, as you pull up in front of Anakin’s house in your car. It’s five weeks to the day following his attempted suicide; his wrists are still bandaged, but not nearly as thickly. The hospital has taught you how to care for the wounds until they heal completely; actually seeing what he’d done to himself for the first time was jarring, but you’re still more than willing to help.

“I’m sorry for all of this,” he tells you, staring out the front windshield toward his home. You’ve agreed to stay with him while he continues to recover. The social worker at the hospital had strongly implied during your last meeting with her that if Anakin didn’t have full-time support at home when he was discharged, she might very well have to get children’s services involved with his family. The prospect of that seems to frighten him. You already know Ben has to leave soon for another tour of duty, and besides you, there isn’t anyone available to help. The last thing you want is for Anakin to lose his kids on top of everything else, and so that makes it very easy for you to agree to move in with them for a little while. 

Anyway, it just so happens that you still love spending time with him— even after what happened.

“Why are you sorry?” you ask, looking over at him. “I’m happy to help— I just want you to be okay, remember?” 

He sighs; he’s been sighing a lot lately. “I know,” he says, “and I’m fine... but, you know I don’t like to—”

“—Cause any problems,” you finish for him. “Yes, I do know— and this isn’t a problem; not for me. If I didn’t want to be here, I wouldn’t be.”

“You didn’t exactly sign up for this back when you invited me out for coffee,” he points out, starting to gather his things from the floor of your car. 

“Maybe not,” you admit, taking your keys out of the ignition, “but what does it tell you that I’m willing to do it anyway?”

Anakin doesn’t say anything to that.


End file.
